Breathe Us In, Slowly
by The-Eremite
Summary: Dr. Jonathan Crane decides to experiment on all the inhabitants of Arkham Asylum with a new, slow-release toxin designed to drive them to insanity over the period of a few weeks.
1. Chapter One: Infection

**Hey there, this is my very first Batman story ever published on here. My aim with this was to portray a different kind of fear than the usual sudden explosion of terror that our dear old doctor likes to prescribe, instead I wanted this to be slow, subtle and distinctly cruel. Any and all criticism is welcome, even a simple message just telling me how awful I am at least means you read the thing. Enjoy.**

* * *

Ruth Delapore stared at the specks of blood lazily staining the tissue in her hand. The initial shock and confusion at seeing the scattering of dark red stains had quickly faded into weary resignation, a mental sigh that formed a simple phrase.

 _Of course._

She started suddenly, reality drowning whatever hazy space she had slipped into. Shaking her head, Delapore wondered why she was so worried, a lousy cough was nothing to be too concerned about. Making a mental note to call her doctor at the first opportunity, she continued down the corridor, attempting to reclaim her usual air of calm but utterly failing to ignore both the exhausted faces surrounding her and the dark impressions that continued to slither about in her mind. Everyone at the Asylum had been looking a little under the weather recently, she mused.

 _Perhaps there's a bug going around._

Delapore did not want to linger on the sharp jolt of horror that spasmed through her body, she knew that the dark well of memory was always prepared to flood her with buried misery. Gritting her teeth and scolding herself for being so pathetic, she quickened her pace, forcefully extinguishing all petty thoughts of disease. Dr. Delapore had important work to do, and she would not let some insignificant little bacteria stop her.

* * *

"And how does that make you feel?"

The words filled the bare Arkham room like an unwelcome guest that, although unpleasant to have around, was still perhaps better than being alone.

Arthur Griffin was intensely bored, and that particular question always made him feel like some stereotypical quack, too busy asking banal, meaningless questions to actually cure anything. He wondered sometimes when they would replace psychologists with automated machines, able to run through the endless list of questions far more efficiently and without the desire to end their career halfway through an interview. His current patient, a bloated middle aged man named Harry Pitt, was more than happy to babble away with or without Griffin's presence. Griffin was sure that if he got up for a coffee break, when he returned he would find Mr Pitt in mid-sentence.

"Oh just terrible doc just awful you have no idea how guilty I feel about the whole thing but it ain't my fault I didn't know I couldn't have kno-"

Griffin silently prayed that Mr Pitt would forget to breathe for so long that he would quietly pass out on the table. He seemed to consider breathing a waste of valuable talking time.

 _Fifteen more minutes_ Griffin repeated to himself, _just fifteen more minutes and I'll be-_

"What the hell was that?" Griffin exclaimed, shooting to his feet suddenly. His chair crashed into the polished white walls behind him with a harsh thud.

"Doc? Was' up with you?" Pitt said, leaning forward to study Griffin's panicked features. Griffin turned to face him, desperately trying to collect himself. Harry knew something had Dr. Griffin really spooked, his wife had just the same look right before he finally put an end to her nagging.

"Nothing. God, it was nothing, just thought I saw something out the corner of my eye." Griffin admitted in a hushed voice, his cheeks turning pink with embarrassment.

"Well, what kinda somethin' did you see?" Pitt asked, evidently enjoying the role reversal.

Griffin paused, too busy organizing his thoughts to notice Pitt's gleeful smile. Why had he freaked out like some ditzy housewife confronted by a cartoon mouse? Despite himself, he continued to stare at the corner where he thought he had seen...what?

 _Something creep, something crawl._

"A spider maybe, or, or a cockroach", Griffin answered, preparing for the insults sure to come. He had faced them many times before.

"Seein' bugs doc? Here I was, thinking I was supposed to be the crazy one!" Pitt laughed, revelling in Griffin's obvious discomfort and annoyance.

"Yes well, I think that will have to do for our session Mr Pitt, I'll see you next week." Griffin said, anxious to make an exit with some dignity left intact. He walked over to the door, trying to stop himself from sprinting.

 _Get out. Get out get out get out._

Griffin opened the door, taking a last look at his patient's mocking smile.

"You let me know when you want another appointment eh, Arthur? I think together we can overcome these delusions of yours." Mr Pitt shouted, breaking into a high pitched giggle as the door slammed shut.

Griffin breathed deeply, irrationally glad to be free of the cell. The security guard standing by the door shot him a puzzled glance, before deciding he didn't care enough to enquire into whatever had just happened. Griffin was glad of it and began to rush back to his office, already justifying the incident to himself. _I just need to relax and get a good night's sleep_ , Griffin told himself, _I've been working too hard, I always work too hard._

A bottle or two of pest killer wouldn't hurt though, just to be absolutely safe.

* * *

"Professor Charles Norton, the board would like to thank you for your application. After what happened to Warden Hadley, we're in desperate need for talent such as yours."

The words came from a timid, balding man seated at the head of a table filled with similar such men. The apparent sincerity of the statement was offset by a clumsy wink directed at the handsome, immaculately dressed figure stood at the other end of the table.

Charles Norton gave a wide grin that seemed to encompass the whole room with its kindness, modesty and subtle but deliberate sadness, as if the memory of Arkham's former Warden touched a nerve deep inside him. His eyes however, glittered with nothing but greed.

"My only hope is that I'll be given the opportunity to serve this Asylum, and make the improvements it so badly needs. Thank you so much for your time." Norton said earnestly, the practiced words smoothly rolling off his tongue.

The grin did not fade as he strolled confidently through the maze of the Asylum, but grew with triumph. It had been very easy in the end he reflected, a few favours, a few bribes and a very detailed plan that he had 'borrowed' from a fellow competitor had secured him the most powerful job in the Asylum. Sure, the former Warden's accident had been a _terrible_ tragedy, but at the end of the day he was obviously the better man. Arkham Asylum would finally be getting the director it deserved.

 _Liar. Cheater. Thief._

Norton halted, pressing his hand to his temple. He gasped as he felt blood pumping through his head like thick tar, each beat bringing acute, hammering pain. Clenching his fists he stood firmly in place, waiting for the migraine to pass.

 _Where the hell did that come from?_

Charles Norton had long ago decided that guilt was for the meek and mild, and not something he was going to let bother him. There was no way those words had come from _his_ mind, Norton felt nothing but pride at his deceit. If a man was clever enough to get away with something, Norton believed, he deserved to keep his prize. No, he had _heard_ those words.

Wrenching his eyes open, Norton stared wildly at the empty corridor in front of him. His momentary confusion was ended when two figures glided past, muttering softly to each other.

 _Had it been them?_

Norton continued to stare, refusing to believe that what looked like two lowly interns would dare insult him in such a manner. How could they possibly know the things he had done?

His question ceased to matter when one of the interns turned her head to look at him. Norton stood paralyzed with fear at what he saw in that gaze.

 _They knew._

By the time he had processed her accusing glare, she had turned back, whispering to her comrade with a new intensity. Charles Norton could not believe what had just happened. He told himself he would catch up and confront them, that he would put a swift end to whatever vicious, jealous rumours they had heard about him and reassure them of his competence, his honesty, his decency. Continuing to picture exactly what he would do and say, Norton started to slowly slink back to the safety of his office.

* * *

Arthur Griffin stared at the faces around him in disbelief. The staff of Arkham Asylum met monthly to discuss security, patients and finances. It was often an agonisingly dull event, but this week it looked like they were meeting to discuss the death of their loved ones.

 _It must have been a damn rough week for everyone else as well._

The staff of Arkham Asylum looked tired, haggard and pained. Their eyes stared blankly at the table in front of them, each seeming like they were in a world of their own and that it was not a pleasant one to occupy. Even Professor Norton, who usually surrounded himself with an air of arrogant superiority, was weakly mumbling about some violent incident involving Two-Face and a nurse with heterochromia, his words falling quietly from his mouth like dead leaves.

 _They all look like they could collapse at any moment_ , Griffin observed.

Griffin's gaze circled the room, trying his best to reassure his workmates with a confidence he did not feel. Dr. Delapore met his look, her warm smile showing she appreciated the effort. She brushed her chestnut hair from her face and seemed to renew her effort to focus on the meeting.

Griffin had to stop himself from gasping when he saw the sharp, gaunt face of Jonathan Crane near the corner of the table. Griffin was temporarily baffled as to why Dr. Crane's calm, composed expression shocked him, before realizing that it was _because_ Crane looked so serene. He was the only one that did not look affected by whatever had contaminated his coworkers. His icy, blue eyes seemed to be looking at everyone at once, examining the room and filing away the information he gained for later use.

 _He must see their pain as well_ , thought Griffin.

A piercing smack resounded throughout the room, and the whole staff recoiled in one fluid motion. One young nurse audibly screamed, a tension that had been building for days ripping itself from her throat. It took Griffin a few seconds to recognise the throbbing pain in his hand, and a few more to realise _he_ had smacked the table with an unconscious, violent reflex. The whole room stared at him with an incoherent, preposterous _fear._

"Sorry," Griffin began sheepishly, "thought I saw a spider."

The room was filled with sighs of relief and nervous laughter, no-one wanting to admit that the mindless dread they had all shared was out of the ordinary. Griffin sat in quiet despair, knowing that there was nothing underneath his flattened palm, yet _absolutely sure_ he had seen a spider.

Arthur Griffin did not notice the pair of intense, blue eyes scrutinizing him, or the narrow fingers that gently scribbled a few words into a small, black notebook.


	2. Chapter Two: Paranoia

Charles Norton marched up the cracked concrete steps to the Asylum entrance, the hot rage coursing through him adding passionate forcefulness to his movements. He felt ready to lash out at any passing fool, letting them taste a small measure of the suffering he had endured all night.

"How dare she?" Norton spat aloud, his face contorting with anger and pain, as memories of the fierce argument reverberated through his head. His wife, normally so sweet and docile, had viciously turned on him, assaulting him with subtle insults and innumerable concealed barbs. Oh she thought herself so cunning, believing that he wouldn't notice, but Norton had caught on to the act quickly enough. Her pupils had widened when he confronted her, trying her best to fake surprise and distress, but Charles Norton was not a man easily deceived. Norton had never had a reason to strike his wife before, but by God if she acted up like that again, she would sorely regret it.

 _At least I'm safe from her here_ , Norton thought, glad to be back at the Asylum. Here, he held the the power and soon enough his home life would mirror that once again.

Norton burst through the heavy iron doors, inhaling a deep breath that he expected to fill him with harmony and comfort but instead immediately made him feel much worse. His head was already beginning to pound as he shuffled to his first meeting, each dull thud echoing the torture of his wife's piercing comments. Norton did not want to admit it, but he had been wounded by the things she had insinuated. No, worse than that, he had been afraid precisely because they were _true_. His wife, just like all the others, was starting to catch on to him. The _doubters_ had been appearing in greater numbers, always watching him, their expressions full of masked scorn and their mouths overflowing with scalding gossip.

Someone was spreading lies, _truths_ , about him and Norton was determined to find out who this treacherous adversary was. Most were small-minded sheep, far too stupid to endanger him. Griffin had never shown any ambition beyond getting through the day, certainly none for the position of Warden, could that have suddenly changed? Delapore was easy to manipulate and had been under his thumb for three years, surely she would not have abandoned him now?

 _Crane._

The name bloomed, sending bleak roots of doubt shooting through his body. Norton angrily crushed the anxiety, dismissing the notion as ridiculous. It was impossible that Dr. Crane was somehow orchestrating the envious abuse. Although he was undoubtedly the most capable psychiatrist in Arkham, he was a detached, cowardly man. It _had_ been Crane's plans Norton had stolen in order to sway the board, but Norton was positive the gangly doctor was too chicken-hearted to seek revenge. Dr. Crane had seemed untroubled to hear his plans announced when Norton listed the changes he would be making as the new Warden of Arkham. No, it could not be Crane, the poor wretch was a weakling and far too withdrawn to convince others of anything, let alone tarnish the reputation of the most powerful man in the Asylum.

Norton had been so absorbed with suspicion and conspiracy that he only noticed the two interns when he was less than ten feet away from them. Barely suppressing a scream he glared at the pair of tormentors, already beginning the process of backing away, one that he was by now very familiar with. He feared _them_ most of all. Where they lingered there was no peace, only whispers and burning shame. Each time he heard their accusations Norton convinced himself he would put an end to it all, but by the time he had built up the confidence to act, they melted away like phantoms.

Then, without warning, the two figures slowly began to twist their heads, the muscles in their necks contorting until they were both looking directly at Norton. They grinned, their lips tearing a gaping laceration of sneering hate into their faces.

 _Incompetent. Unfaithful. Pathetic._

Charles Norton fled, whimpering softly as his heart convulsed erratically with frantic terror. There was no doubt he had heard those words, the very same words his wife had used throughout the previous night. Norton did not pause to think how such a thing could be possible, he did not think at all, he simply kept running until he slammed into an empty corner and miserably slid to his knees.

He was not sure how long he lay slumped in that crevice, struggling to hold back tears and control his pounding heart. Trying to regulate his breathing proved futile, every wretched gasp he took brought a new wave of nausea and nervous shaking. No-one passed him, but that was not unusual for Arkham Asylum, a person could walk for an hour and not see a single human being, just endless cells bursting with anguished screaming.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Norton rose, his fear of discovery outweighing his dread of encountering the interns. He hesitantly limped down the vacant corridor, unsure where he was going or what he was going to do about...anything. His panic flared up once again when he glimpsed a shadow turn the corner in front of him, but it was somewhat calmed when he recognised it was Dr. Delapore. She was walking fitfully, her whole frame a vessel that exuded nervous agitation. Norton took comfort in that fact that he was not the only one suffering today.

"Dr. Delapore!" Norton cried, using all his willpower to prevent his voice from cracking. Gathering together what remained of his self-esteem, he gave his best, charming grin. It quickly faltered when he remembered the terrible smiles of the demonic interns. He hoped she wouldn't notice the thin layer of sweat he could feel lightly running down his forehead but did not want to bring attention to it by wiping it away.

Ruth Delapore snapped her head up sharply, noticing the clean-cut man standing in front of her as he uttered her name, but only realising that the golden hair and gleaming teeth belonged to Charles Norton when she pushed the deep mist of sorrow from her thoughts. She opened her mouth to reply, but the attempt swiftly degenerated into a violent coughing fit that wracked her whole body with a pain she had been enduring for days.

"Are you alright Ruth?" Norton asked, the genuine concern he felt somewhat marred by the noticeably forced aspect of the cough.

 _She's faking it_ , Norton thought, a cold suspicion crystallising as he wondered what possible reason she could have to do so.

"Yes," Delapore wheezed, holding back the wave of filth seeking to flee from her lungs, "just a slight cold, nothing to worry about." Her gaze stayed firmly rooted to the floor as she spoke, her words no more than an afterthought of the cough, which she thought should have answered his question well enough. She was grievously sick, was it not obvious? Delapore supposed she had been more successful at hiding the fiery red sores that had started to appear on her face better than she first thought. Hunched over a mirror, her doe-like eyes brimming with confusion and humiliation, she had seen them as clearly after the generous layer of makeup as before, but then again, Norton had never been very attentive.

"Why the hell did you come in to work then Ruth? Any sane person would celebrate the chance to get away from this place for a while." Norton began, doubts continuing to swim through his head, "In fact I'd wager there are plenty of _insane_ people that would love to get away from here as well."

"What does that make me then?"

 _A liar_.

"An idiot, obviously." Norton smirked, hoping Ruth would be provoked into giving him a straight answer.

Ruth Delapore did not want to tell him that the thought of being trapped, lying pitifully in bed while the festering disease gradually choked her with rot, birthed an all-consuming panic that forced her to struggle out the door, to keep going at any cost. She would not, _could not,_ let an infection compel her to that living grave, the half-death that she had seen so much of and dreaded ever since. Nor could she tell Norton that the senseless physician claimed she was quite healthy, Delapore knew better than to trust the words of doctors. The very same medical 'professionals' had not seen the decay in her mother until it was too late, till there was nothing left to do except suffer and scream until the cancer seized its inevitable victory. Delapore did not want to admit to Norton that the real reason she continued to drag herself into the Asylum, knowing it was saturated with foulness, was because the alternative scared her more than any other fate imaginable.

"It's nothing serious Charles, I promise. I don't need to take any time off work, but thank you for being so concerned." Delapore stated formally, praying that she sounded convincing.

Norton's lips drew tight together, unsure if the answer satisfied his curiosity, but gradually convincing himself that she had no reason to lie. He was still shaken and had probably imagined that the cough was faked, the whole idea beginning to look very silly. Norton looked at the pretty, young girl in front of him and felt an air of clarity descend upon him. Feeling slightly more like his usual self, he decided a bit of harmless flirtation would make him feel much better.

"That's good to hear my dear, but you still deserve to relax a little, don't you think?. Why not join me tonight for dinner, and perhaps a bottle or two of wine? I may not be a medical professor but I'm quite confident that I could cure you of all this unnecessary stress." Norton asked, remembering fondly the satisfying sexual encounter they had shared a few years back after one particularly drunken staff party. He knew that Ruth was a lonely girl, and it was easy enough to lure her back to his place while his wife was visiting relatives. Delapore had left hurriedly the morning after, apparently full of guilt about the incident, and ever since she had blushed furiously whenever Norton winked at her or softly brushed against her leg when they passed a little too close. Norton figured a delightful evening together was exactly what they both needed, and reached out his hand to squeeze her arm playfully.

Delapore frantically jerked her arm back to avoid Norton's contaminated touch, letting out a shriek before lapsing into another uncontrollable fit of coughing. Delapore vividly pictured her feeble lungs ineptly battling some putrid corruption.

 _Mother, please don't let it happen to me too._

Norton stared in amazement at the woman in front of him, struggling to accept how desperately she was trying to get rid of him. The cough was not real. Ruth Delapore had abandoned him, she was in league with the _doubters_. For the first time in Charles Norton's life, he felt utterly alone. Without saying goodbye, he walked down the claustrophobic Arkham corridor, unsure of his destination but far past caring. His mind inadvertently drifted to his father's hand grenade, an old World War II relic he used as a paperweight in order to impress guests with fanciful depictions of his dear old dad's wartime exploits. He had no idea if the thing actually worked, in fact he was confident it did not. That's what he'd told Arkham security when he brought the thing in anyway. Norton imagined walking up to those interns, or whatever foul power was behind his sudden downfall and pulling the pin, laughing gleefully just before all his worries and fears turned to rubble.

Delapore watched Norton walk away, realising that he must have left for fear of catching her toxic pestilence. If Charles' had run from her, who would not? Wasn't her fate some dank hospital bed, hidden away by her 'loved ones' so that she would not trouble them too much as she withered into nonexistence?

 _What am I thinking?_ Delapore wondered, _I'm not dying! I'm just sick, with something so minor a doctor couldn't even diagnose it. When did I become so paranoid?_

Delapore spun around, presuming Norton was late for an appointment and it was just his ordinary bad manners coming to the fore again. She had barely taken a step when she crashed into something sharply angular, crying out for the second time in just as many minutes, and stumbled forward, awkwardly catching her paperwork before it plummeted to the ground. Apologies already forming in her mouth she glanced up and recognised the thin, stern face of Jonathan Crane examining her dispassionately. The word sorry had just begun to escape her lips when Crane whispered in a delicately concerned manner.

"You have blood on your hands, Dr. Delapore."

"What?" Delapore replied in a faint echo as she glanced down at her dainty fingers, each one coated with a thin layer of blood. Delapore felt something rush through her, something primal that swept away all rational thought, robbed her of every pleasant joy she had never known and left behind a freezing numbness that promised no end or relief. The blood was sticky and hot on her hands, the sensation amplified by the fact that it was the only thing she _could_ feel.

Then the plug was pulled and her emotions poured back into her, bubbling like a chemical reaction soon to become an explosion.

"I'm sorry Dr. Crane, I-I..." Delapore whimpered, trailing off into nothing. She stared into his expressionless, lean face and saw an almost imperceptible nod of permission. Grateful for his understanding, she fled without a word, searching for any place where she could let out the wracking sobs that had begun to build in her throat like acidic bile, demanding release.

Jonathan Crane stood rooted in place for a few seconds, allowing himself a brief pause to truly savour his work. Then, taking out his little black book, he added a new name to his growing collection of noteworthy subjects.

'Dr. Delapore, R: Nosophobia'


	3. Chapter Three: Empty Spaces

Arthur Griffin emptied the last of the insect repellent into the corner of his office, his eyes watering at the concentration of chemicals in the room. The acrid smell had already started to burn his nostrils before he realised that he would have to go somewhere while the spray did its blessed work. Griffin did not want to spend the time by himself, being alone had become increasingly unsavoury recently, but he was unsure who was still here this late in the evening or if they would even tolerate him bothering them for an hour or two.

Well, he knew one person that would be around, but Griffin was positive that _he_ wouldn't appreciate the intrusion.

 _Ah, screw it_ , Griffin thought, a smile breaking out on his face, _me and Crane get along all right._ Griffin remembered a few times when the two of them had shared a laugh, admittedly Griffin had been doing most of the laughing, but he was sure that Crane liked him. The skinny bastard was just too shy to show it. Griffin knew that most of his fellow psychiatrists disliked creepy Dr. Crane. The man hardly ever spoke, and occasionally you would catch him looking at you like you weren't actually real at all.

No, that wasn't quite right, it was more clinical than that, as if you were just-

 _An insect mounted on a slide_.

Griffin shuddered at the image, angry that he had broke his fleeting good mood. He dismissed the insults of his peers, Griffin was confident that underneath his cool exterior Jonathan was just an ordinary guy looking for a friend. Griffin liked to think that he could be that friend to Crane, even if it was just because he was the only one willing to try. He hazily recalled that Delapore had given it a go, hoping that they could cure each others mutual loneliness, but Crane had never appeared interested. The silly girl had moved on to Norton after that, which in Griffin's private opinion, was an exceedingly bad decision.

Griffin noticed he was approaching Dr. Crane's office and began cycling through various excuses he could use for popping in other than, 'I'm insane so I filled my place with enough pesticide to kill a horse'. Settling on using the rather amusing break-out attempt by the Calendar Man yesterday afternoon as a conversation starter, Griffin barged through the door without knocking, sure that Crane would be absorbed in his work as per usual.

What Griffin saw when he stepped into the room, tightly-packed with endless stacks of paperwork, seared itself into his mind like a brand of heated iron. Behind a large, ancient desk in the middle of the room was Dr. Crane, his face etched with the most intense look of hatred Arthur Griffin had ever witnessed. It was not merely annoyance at the intrusion, nor a dislike of the man who had entered, Griffin knew immediately that it did not matter who had walked through that door, but a hatred that encompassed the whole world. Crane's fearsome blue eyes blazed with _malice_ , as if all the rage of humanity was bottled up inside him and it had cracked open, allowing Griffin to glimpse a tiny fraction of its potential.

Then it was gone. Crane's expression was of facetious exasperation, just as Griffin had originally expected it to be. Before Griffin had the chance to process what he had seen, Crane was starting to talk, allowing no time for Griffin to absorb the experience or confirm that it had really happened.

"What do you want Dr. Griffin? As you can see I am awfully busy at present."

"Oh nothing much Jonathan, just thought I'd swing by and keep you company. Say, did you hear about the whole Calendar Man affair?" Griffin replied, the memory of Crane's piercing stare already fading into dissolution. Everything had been so hazy recently, Griffin was finding it increasingly hard to think straight.

 _Especially about the bugs._

"Yes, I heard. What of it?" Crane replied in a droning monotone, as if the effort to actually speak to Griffin was almost too much to bear.

"Well you know," Griffin began, determined not to be put off the conversation by Crane's unpleasantness, "it kinda fits in with everything else going on recently. I swear this place is getting more crazy, and I'm not just talking about the patients."

Griffin thought he heard something that resembled a giggle emanate from behind the desk before Crane spoke.

"Whatever do you mean, Dr. Griffin?"

"Please call me Arthur, Jonathan, you know I prefer it." Griffin said, hoping to stall answering the question.

"Very well," Crane drawled, "Whatever do you mean, _Arthur_?"

Griffin hesitated before replying, wondering if he could trust Crane. The things that had been happening were incredibly strange after all, and Griffin worried Jonathan would think that he was losing it.

 _What if I am?_ Griffin wondered.

"Things have been weird lately, haven't you noticed?" Griffin inquired, praying that Crane would answer in the affirmative. Crane's sat motionless, signalling that Griffin would have to continue his explanation alone.

"People have been extra jumpy, all throughout Arkham. I don't know what's going on, but everyone seems so anxious, like they're expecting something terrible to happen at any moment. That's just on the surface too, I've spoken to a few people who claim they've been, well, seeing things. Things that may not be real."

"This _is_ an Asylum, Arthur."

"No, I mean the doctors! The psychiatrists, the guards, the damn janitors, all of them seem to be losing their minds. A nurse came up to me the other day, declared she was quitting, said there was something wrong with this place. I asked her what she meant and she told me the craziest thing, Jonathan. She claimed that she had been at her post, when her phone had started to ring. The nurse looked down and saw it was her father calling. Thing is Crane, her dad had drunk himself to death two years ago! She checked the call log after, nothing there. Anyway, the nurse told me she felt more afraid than she had in her entire life and that she had to quit the Asylum, screamed that it was evil. To be honest, I couldn't blame her."

Crane was paying attention to his visitor now. His eyes glowed with an electric ferocity as the generator of his mind hummed, greedily soaking up Griffin's story.

"There's more you're not telling me, isn't there Arthur?" Crane purred, his fingers lightly drumming the desk in eager anticipation.

Griffin sighed, not looking at Crane. He was too deep in to turn back now, he may as well admit it. There was even a chance Crane could help.

"Well I may be a member of this growing legion of lunatics."

"What makes you say that?"

"I uh," Griffin stammered, regretting ever coming into Crane's office, "I see insects occasionally Johnny, one's that might not really be there."

"Why?"

"What?" Griffin exclaimed, his head shooting up to shoot Crane a quizzical stare.

"Why do you see insects?"

Griffin caught his breath, astounded at Crane's reaction. He had not insulted Griffin, nor accused him of being crazy. He wanted to understand him instead. Griffin was touched by Crane's clear desire to help. _If anyone can help me now,_ Griffin reflected, _it'd be Dr. Jonathan Crane_.

"I'm afraid of them Jonathan." Griffin confessed.

"Entomophobia. An unusual fear, more commonly focused on a specific creature, for example, a spider. What caused this aversion to insects Arthur?"

"It was so long ago. I feel like such a loon still getting so upset about it."

"Not at all Arthur, traumatic episodes at a young age often leave the deepest impression on the mind."

Griffin exhaled gradually, preparing to reveal to Crane one of his most private experiences. It occurred to him that he'd never told this story to anyone before, he couldn't quite believe that Crane of all people would be the first one to hear it.

"My Dad and I lived in an old house when I was a kid, I mean really ancient, it fell apart a little more each day. Anyway one night, I started to notice this smell rising from the floorboards, so rancid it made me gag. Dad recognised that it was the sickly sweet odour of rotting meat pretty quickly. He told me something must have crawled under there to die, and Christ I wish he hadn't. It was all I could think about for days, that corpse lying down there, decaying in the dark. Whenever I closed my eyes I saw myself trapped, decomposing below the floorboards. I could _feel_ it under my feet Jonathan, a permanent presence just out of sight, but never out of mind."

"My Dad eventually made the decision to pull up the old boards and get the thing out, by now the whole house reeked of spoiled flesh. I begged my dad not to, oh god Crane I didn't want to see what remained of that poor animal but I _knew_...I knew I would look all the same. He didn't listen to me, obviously, and when he snapped the plank out of place I caught a glimpse of it, just for a moment, before I began to howl with fear. It was _moving_ Jonathan. It was dead, long dead, but its flesh was bursting with maggots, with worms, with flies. They had been feeding on the carrion for days, breeding inside it, fornicating and fattening in the shadows. I couldn't even recognize the animal underneath that disgusting mass of pulsating filth."

Griffin was too absorbed in horror to notice the twitching of Crane's mouth as he struggled to repress a smile.

"There was something else down there too, something bigger than any of the cockroaches or the spiders. It was writhing around in the animals mouth, but I knew it was huge because I could see it pressing against the creature's throat. It had hundreds of wiggling legs, like a centipede, but it must've been twice the size of any fucking centipede I know of..."

Griffin halted, his breathing frantic, and wiped his now clammy hands onto his trousers. He had not expected the story to take this much of a toll on him.

"It was in that moment I realised one day that wretchedness would be me. One day I would be shut in the dark, my body a host for a million different insects, burrowing inside me, devouring me. I looked at that animal and I could already feel the sensation of maggots squirming under my skin, of tiny flies crawling over my eyes and worst of all that _thing_ slithering down my throat. I screamed and screamed and screamed until my Dad carried me out of the house and threw me onto the porch. I don't know how long it took for him to get rid of the body, it might have been hours, but I knew that I would never be free of that creature. It would always be there, hidden away in the gloomy parts of my brain just as it had been concealed under the floorboards."

Silence filled the room. Griffin was too afraid to look at Dr. Crane, worried about the reaction his story would provoke. Jonathan might accuse him of madness, mock his infantile phobia or worst of all simply look at him in the same way he looked at his patients. Griffin did not want to join the inmates he had treated.

Eventually he willed his head to rise, ready to face judgment, but when he saw Crane a wave of intoxicating relief washed over him. Dr. Crane's expression was of gentle concern, acceptance, and _understanding_. Griffin wanted to shake Jonathan's hand, to hug him, to weep openly on his shoulder. It was so rare, Griffin realised, to be truly understood by someone, to lay bare your soul with all it's flaws and fears yet find no harshness from the one examining it. Griffin knew with absolute certainty that the fragile doctor in front of him was not the reclusive weirdo so often joked about by his colleagues but rather a man too meek and humble to surround himself with other people.

"And recently you've been seeing bugs physically manifest, Arthur?" Crane asked, his voice soft, aware of the deeply personal nature of the question.

"Yeah. At first it was just flickers and shadows, always just out of sight, but then I started to observe them more clearly. They were always in the distance, and by the time I summoned the courage to investigate they had scuttled away. It didn't occur to me that they might not be real until I finally managed to trap one of the spiders underneath a glass. I turned around to grab something to kill it with and when I turned back it was gone."

There was another pause as Crane pondered the best course of action to take. Griffin interrupted his thoughts with a question he had been building up to since he first walked into Crane's office.

"You think I'm going crazy?"

"Of course not Arthur. The most likely explanation is stress and lack of sleep. You should know better than most that the mind is far more delicate than people believe, it doesn't take much to inflict this sort of damage."

"Don't you think I considered that? I tried to get a decent amount of sleep but I kept having these terrible nightmares and now I can hardly sleep at all. Relaxing is impossible too, whenever I step through those big Asylum doors I get so nervous and twitchy Jonathan. Maybe I should take some time off?"

Crane suddenly bolted forward on his chair, his compassionate smile fading for a moment before springing back as he regained his composure.

"If you do that Arthur," Crane began, carefully choosing his words, "then you let your fear win. You cannot surrender to fear, because once you do it will never let you escape from its grasp. Taking time off work may seem the simple solution, but there's a chance you wouldn't come back. Fear will cripple you, bit by bit, until you can no longer work, perhaps no longer even leave the house. Then, eventually, even your home will turn on you, no doubt growing infested with insects. You might end up back here after all, but no longer as one of the doctors."

"Jeez Crane-" Griffin started, surprised by Crane's sudden passion

"I'm entirely serious Dr. Griffin. Fear flourishes as willpower decays. My professional recommendation is to focus your mind on something specific, perhaps your work. Do not be distracted by these fantasies or they will never dissipate. Oh, and sleeping tablets for the nightmares."

"Yes- yes of course Dr. Crane, whatever you say. I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help and understanding. You're right, I can't let these childish phantoms win, I can't abandon my job. Thank you Jonathan, this chat has really put my mind at rest." Griffin blurted out, his admiration threatening to spill over into sentimental nonsense.

"I'm glad to have been of assistance, Arthur." Crane replied, his gaze darting to the door.

Griffin took the hint and leaned forward to vigorously shake Crane's hand. Crane grimaced and quickly placed his hand back under the desk once Griffin had finished wringing the life from it. Griffin flung open the door, fantastically pleased at his restored confidence.

"And Arthur? If I were you I would keep our talk, and the insects, to yourself. Others may not be so considerate." Crane called out as Griffin stepped through the door. Griffin poked his head back in, nodded grimly, then darted out, whistling tunelessly as he trotted down the corridor.

Crane waited one minute and sixteen seconds in perfect silence until he was sure that Dr. Griffin was out of earshot before releasing the laugh that had been burgeoning inside him. It began as a harsh chuckle, before swelling into a maniacal fit of laughter that left him clutching the desk for support. It was all coming together so perfectly, even if progress was more rapid than originally anticipated. He had not expected the toxin to have such a strong effect so quickly but the incidents with Griffin and Delapore proved beyond a doubt that physical hallucinations had begun.

Crane pulled open his desk, snatching up his precious notebook and started to jot down the details of this latest revelation. Griffin's story was fascinating and ideas were already forming on how to best exploit it. He would also have to revise the projected timetable, Crane doubted his guinea pigs had more than a month left before their minds would be completely, irrevocably broken by fear.


End file.
